"It isn't much of a feast," she started -- but her words died out. Her handmaiden had told her, once, that the men of Flea Bottom would hate her because her horse ate better than their children did.

She only had to make eye contact with a member of the serving staff, gesture gently with a hand, and the young woman was off to fetch the tarts. In light of Gendry's simple pleasure at being fed, the act made her feel unwholesome. She had never felt so before -- even at her most bruised and bloodied, she'd always felt her right to issue orders.

"I wonder if there will be time to take the contents of the pantry wit us when we go." When. Not if. "If we leave it, it will spoil."

There. One small step on the way to being conscientious about what she had and others didn't. At least she cold prove that she would not leave it all to go rotten in her absence. What a waste.